


go with all your heart

by zipadeea



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adoption, Bigotry & Prejudice, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Song: Toss a Coin to Your Witcher (The Witcher), Talking to Horses, along with beautiful white hair, and sad, but sometimes he's very good at it, geralt and ciri's ride to kaer morhen, it runs in the family, it's ciri's favorite song, it's cute, sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipadeea/pseuds/zipadeea
Summary: “I’m sorry for the people you’ve lost, Ciri. But you have me. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m here.”Cintra is gone. Her kingdom, her life as a princess is over.But just because that home is dead doesn’t mean home is forever lost.***Snapshots from Geralt and Ciri's trip to Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 20
Kudos: 228





	go with all your heart

**Author's Note:**

> Anybody who's read my other works knows found family fics are my bread and butter. So, obviously when Netflix gives me a show about a beautiful monster hunter and his unexpected child acquisition, i gotta watch and write some stories about it. 
> 
> UGH it's just such a good show. That last scene, when they find each other in the woods....my heart. And every other part of the show is great, too. Go watch if you haven't. In the meantime, I'll make up stories about my new favorite duo and (im)patiently wait for season 2.

They’re three days out from the little farm in Sodden. The world is cold and quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Geralt’s decided to give Roach a break and walk for a bit, leaving the saddle to Ciri as they traverse the wintry wood. 

The sun is high in the sky, filtering through the leaves in the trees surrounding them. A bird twitters nearby. It’s peaceful. 

“Toss a coin to your witcher,” Ciri sings thoughtlessly under her breath, petting Roach’s mane through her fingers. “Oh, valley of plenty. Oh, valley of plen--,” 

“Any other song, Cirilla. Please,” Geralt interrupts suddenly. His mouth is stuck in a grimace. 

“But why—oh,” Ciri stops, the half-remembered beginning verse filtering through her head. “So, you’re _that_ Geralt of Rivia? The White Wolf?” 

“Hm.” 

Ciri decides that type of grunt must mean yes. 

“So, you know the bard who wrote it? He was really with you to fight the elves?” 

“Hm.” 

“Geralt,” Ciri whines. Geralt looks up at her and grins. Ciri shoves his shoulder. “Use your words.” 

Something like laughter huffs out of Geralt’s nose. “He’s my—his name is Jaskier. And we hardly fought the elves that day. They captured us then had mercy. Jaskier wasn’t as fond of that version of events for some reason.” 

“Ah.” Something curdles in Ciri’s stomach at the thought of elves, of Dara and Grandmother and the everlasting shift her worldview has taken in the last weeks. 

Ciri’s beginning to realize just because a person is good to _her_ doesn’t mean they’re inherently good. 

Even Grandmother. 

They travel in silence for a moment, Ciri lonely and sad in her confused thoughts, the only sound around them the clip and clop of Roach’s footsteps. 

“Do you see this scar?” Geral asks out of the blue, his voice uncharacteristically loud and fast in the quiet forest, as he points out a tiny white scratch by his eye. Ciri nods. 

Geralt has many scars. Ciri accidentally saw once, as Geralt was changing his shirt. His torso is covered in thick, ropy, highly worrisome scars. It seems a miracle he’s even alive. 

But this particular scar has never caught her attention before. “Can you keep a secret?” he asks. 

Ciri nods again, suddenly intrigued. Geralt leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “Someone tossed me a coin with a jagged edge. I didn’t catch it in time.” 

And then Ciri is laughing, loud and bright, leaned over on Roach holding her stomach because it aches with the giggles. She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back a rather pig-like snort. 

She can’t remember the last time she laughed. 

“Sorry--,” Ciri gasps around her laughter. “Sorry, it’s just—oh, my goodness, Geralt!” 

Geralt is silent beside her, but when Ciri looks over, she sees the man smiling. Not the tiny grin or hidden smirk of the past few days, but a smile, real and true. It’s a lovely smile, one that shows off the teeth as white as his hair. It scrunches up his yellow eyes, shows off a dimple in his cheek. 

Geralt’s face is transformed with a smile. 

*** 

Ciri can feel it in her throat the night before. Her appetite is gone, she’s wracked with shivers and chills. Geralt prods her to eat more, but every bite of food seems to get caught in her aching throat. 

“I’m going to bed,” Ciri rasps, pushing away from the table; she stumbles as she stands, gripping the bench to keep herself upright. The sky is still purple with the sunset through the inn’s window. 

“I’ll come with you,” Geralt says immediately, gripping her elbow. His plate is still half full of food. 

Ciri shakes her head, and the world around her spins. She closes her eyes. “It’s fine, I’m fine. You’re not finished eating, I can--,” 

“I’m coming with you, Ciri.” 

And that is that. 

The next morning, Ciri wakes to the sun shining brightly through the window, which is odd as she and Geralt have taken to leaving before dawn each day. 

Her head is pounding. Her face feels hot, but the rest of her body is cold underneath the heavy blankets. She turns her head to see Geralt sitting on a chair next to the bed, picking at his nails with a knife. 

“Don’t we have to go?” Ciri croaks? Geralt looks up, leans forward and sets his chair back on four legs, and grabs a cup of water from the bedside table. 

“I paid for another night,” Geralt says, taking the cup back after Ciri takes a few small sips, dragging another blanket from the foot of the bed and pulling it over her. “Go back to sleep.” 

Ciri remembers, what feels a lifetime ago now, getting sick as a young child, when she’d arrived back in Cintra after long journeys. 

“It’s because you’re home now,” the court physician had said then, as he gave her the ever-dreaded medicine. “You’re sick because your body is finally relaxed after a long period of stress. You know you’re safe.” 

“Everything is fine,” Geralt says, leaning back in his chair and resting his feet on the end of her bed. “Go to sleep, Ciri.” 

And she does. 

*** 

Geralt’s gone further into the woods to relieve himself. Exceedingly bored with the entire day, Ciri turns to Roach. 

“Why on earth would Geralt name such a pretty girl like you after such a horrid insect?” Ciri asks, carefully petting the horse’s mane. “You’re gorgeous. And well-traveled, obviously. I bet you’ve been all over the place, haven’t you girl, all across the continent helping Geralt fight monsters.” 

Roach nickers in response. 

“It seems an interesting life, but probably a difficult one, too. Do you think it’s worth it?” 

Roach huffs. 

“There are definitely pros and cons to life on the road. Carrying around a sword all the time is obviously a pro. Having people tell stories and write pretty songs about you is a pro. Sleeping outside is a con,” Ciri shivers a bit just thinking of the cold nights she’s spent under the stars. 

But not since Geralt found her. Geralt’s always had enough money for a room at the nearest inn. 

“The lack of proper soap is a con as well. And the smell,” Ciri scrunches her nose and Roach bobs her head. “No offense to you, Lovely. But being outside all day is fun!” 

Roach whinnies in agreement, and Ciri smiles. 

“I think you’re right. It’s not so--Geralt!” Ciri yelps. For the man is standing next to a bush right behind the horse, watching Ciri with an odd expression on his face. 

Lord, that man can be silent as the night. 

Ciri feels her face redden in embarrassment. “I’m not crazy!” Ciri cries, “I’m not, it’s not so odd to talk to a horse. Everything was just so quiet, and you were gone, and Roach is easy to talk to and--,” 

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Geralt finally approaches, resting a light hand on Roach’s head. They gather their things quickly; Geralt mounts the horse first, before pulling Ciri up in front of him. They’re back on the road a few long minutes before Geralt finally breaks the silence. 

“Roach is a very good listener.” 

Ciri bites down on her grin. 

*** 

Geralt says they’re headed to Kaer Morhen. It’s a castle in the north, where he learned to be a witcher years and years ago. His old teacher, Vesemir, still lives there, along with a few other witchers who spend the winter months in the castle. 

“There’s some jerked meat in my bag if you’re hungry,” Geralt says one afternoon during their northern travels, after Ciri’s stomach rumbles rather unbecomingly. Ciri leans to the side and pulls the saddlebag toward her, searching for the promised meat. 

Instead, she finds-- 

“Do you play knucklebones, Geralt?” Ciri asks, astonished to find the familiar game pieces in her hand. 

“No.” Geralt replies after a moment. They’re both walking this time, Geralt holding Roach’s reigns, Ciri on the other side of the horse, digging through the saddlebag. 

“I had a set like this,” Ciri says idly, the meat now forgotten in the face of her favorite game. “I would play in the square with my friends...” she trails off, heartbeat quickening at the thought of Anton, of the hands on her in the field, the dark and fire and screams and screams and-- 

“That is your knucklebones set.” 

The statement shocks Ciri out of her thoughts. “What? But that—you were in Cintra? You were in my room?” Ciri stops to let Roach ahead, before moving around and joining Geralt at his side. 

He sighs, staring pointedly into the trees, one hand stroking Roach’s mane. “I came to Cintra a few days before the invasion. I wanted to warn your grandmother Nilfgaard was approaching.” 

Ciri’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t I see you before? There was a feast and—and Grandmother, the last thing she told me was I must find you, that you were my destiny. Why--,” 

Geralt sighs again. Ciri stops talking. 

“I was in the dungeons.” 

“ _What--_ ,” 

They’ve stop walking. Geralt pats Roach’s side and turns to face Ciri. “I came to take you away before the invasion, to claim the Law of Surprise so I’d be sure you were safe. Your grandmother wasn’t keen on my plan. She didn’t wish to lose you--,” 

“So, I lost her instead. I lost everyone,” Ciri covers her face with her hands, voice laced with a bitterness that tastes sour on her tongue. “Grandmother never knew when to retreat. She never knew when to stop, to cut her losses--,” 

“Cirilla,” Geralt interrupts softly. He’s gone on his knees beside her, large hands gripping her shoulders. “Ciri, look at me.” 

Ciri takes a deep breath before raising her head. The tears in her eyes make Geralt blurry before her. 

“The invasion was always going to happen, Ciri. It was inevitable. But you got out. You made it out alive without any help from me. You were able to survive on your own for those weeks and we found each other in the end. That’s all that matters.” 

“They were terrible weeks in between,” Ciri admits with a sniff, and Geralt frowns. “I saw terrible things. I did terrible things. I--,” Ciri’s too choked to go on. She’s never talked about her time alone with Geralt before. 

_I’m a monster,_ she wants to scream. _I’m just like the beasts you hunt down in the night._

Grandmother always spoke of battle, of blood and wars and death like it was all great fun. A game to relive, to reminisce and mimic in the years to come. To win a battle brought great honor. To kill a man, to hold his life in your hands and return his soul to the skies, was the greatest power one could ever possess. 

Grandmother never warned her about the nightmares. She never told Ciri about the guilt, about the heaviness on her heart that makes it difficult to breathe in the quiet of the night. 

Ciri sniffs again, and Geralt pulls her into his arms. 

He smells like Roach and sweat and dirt, but he’s warm, and the arms around her are strong and safe. 

“I’m sorry for everything you had to endure,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner. But you don’t need to apologize to anyone for surviving. You did what was necessary to live, and sometimes that’s all we can do. 

“I took the knucklebones because I saw you playing with your friends in the square. When I found your empty room, when I saw the carnage, I thought--,” Geralt sucks in a deep breath. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d failed you. You see--,” Geralt pulls back, uses the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears away from her cheeks. “Someone told me long ago the girl in the woods was _my_ destiny.” 

Geralt smiles then. It’s soft and small, but it’s a smile, sweet and true. A smile just for her. 

“I’m sorry for the people you’ve lost, Ciri. But you have me. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m here.” 

When they reach an inn that evening, Geralt pulls out the knucklebones and asks her for a round. They sit before the fire, late into the night and play the game of a childhood she thought dead. 

Cintra is gone. Her kingdom, her life as a princess is over. 

But just because that home is dead doesn’t mean _home_ is forever lost. 

*** 

“We don’t serve your kind ‘ere,” the innkeeper proclaims, spitting at Geralt’s feet. “Get off my land you butcher.” 

Ciri looks down and watches the saliva sink into the worn, muddy leather of Geralt’s boot. 

“Hm.” Geralt grunts, putting his hand on Ciri’s shoulder, making to gently turn her away. 

“Run while you can, girly,” the man drawls around his tobacco, leaning against the threshold he refuses to let them pass. “Don’t believe his magic lies. Witchers ain’t got not souls. They don’t feel a damn thing. Heartless monsters, the lot of--,” 

Ciri turns and spits in the man’s face. 

“You nasty little--,” Geralt draws his sword, and the idiot finally shuts up. 

They spend that night under the stars, huddled around a fire Geralt builds. He gives her the extra blanket and his cloak. She shoves her pack against his knees and uses his legs as a pillow. 

“Why do people think witchers can’t feel?” Ciri whispers into the darkness. The fire’s beginning to hiss with the cold. 

“Makes it less difficult sending us off to slay monsters, I suppose. It’s easy not to care about things if you think they can’t reciprocate.” 

Ciri thinks about Geralt as a young man, his body free of scars, standing before another innkeeper as he spit on his shiny leather boots. 

“Well, you have a heart,” Ciri says firmly, hands gripping into Geralt’s cloak covering her. “You care, Geralt.” 

A large hand grabs her shoulder and pats a few times. Ciri reaches up her hand to cover his. 

“Hm.” 

Ciri knows that type of grunt means yes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Love to hear your thoughts!!! Thanks for taking the time to read :)


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